Rating: M
Chapter 26
Optimus had a rigid schedule that he
adhered to every morning. Rise at five, quickly shower and dress,
prepare a light breakfast for himself and both of his and Bumblebee's
lunches, then pack his bag and catch the bus to City Hall at five
thirty. Before six, the place was a ghost town; haunted only by the
night janitor finishing up, the occasional secretary and the roaming
security guards. Sentinel himself wasn't in yet (he usually didn't
clock in before seven) and that was fine by Optimus.
Since mentioning his affections for the
other mech, the guard had been nothing but a downright nuisance. It
was one thing to return someone's feelings, it was another to try and
molest them every astrosecond! Sentinel didn't realize how could he
had it with the german shepherd's patience.
Rolling his optical sensors in memory
of his old friend's antics, Optimus headed down the left wing to
Ultra Magnus' office, and, most importantly, his desk. Rounding the
bend, the secretary was surprised to see Rodimus coming out from the
other side of Magnus' door that very instance, file box in his
servos.
“Good morning, Rodimus,” the german
shepherd greeted, brow furrowed curiously at the surprised jolt the
younger autodog gave from the unsuspecting call, “I didn't expect
any one to be in so early. Is Ultra Magnus also here?”
Rodimus played with some of the folders
stacked on top the box, his optics not meeting Optimus' for almost a
whole klik, as the golden retriever hummed and hawwed uncertainly.
“....Did you want help with those?,”
Optimus asked, walking closer. He was beginning to feel anxious and
he didn't know why, which was only serving to make him more
unsettled. At the offer, Rodimus finally straightened up, his grip on
his items sure and strong.
“No,” he said neutrally, gaze
meeting the other autodog's. “Sorry, you caught me off-guard. Ultra
Magnus will be in later, but I needed to collect these files for a
case I'm currently wrapping up.”
“Oh,” the secretary replied,
smiling politely. “Is there anything you need me to get for you?”
Rodimus shuttered his optics, glancing
down at his things. “Actually....,” he answered after a lengthy
moment, “I have everything I need, but since you offered, could you
please present this to Ultra Magnus when he comes in?” The lawyer
balanced his box precariously as he pulled a thin manila envelope off
the top of the pile, holding it out to the german shepherd. “It's
very important he get it immediately once he arrives, but I must head
out to see my client shortly.”
“I understand completely,” Optimus
beamed, taking the envelope, “I'll make sure Ultra Magnus gets this
as soon as he's in. I hope things go well with your client.”
Rodimus didn't smile in return but he
nodded, sparing an astrosecond to glance back at the office before
walking away. “Goodbye Optimus,” he called over a shoulder.
The secretary set his things down on
his desk, waving at the other's retreating back struts. “Bye,
Rodimus. Have a good day!” Optimus watched the golden retriever
until he rounded the bend and disappeared from sight entirely, before
putting Rodimus' envelope into the urgent bin behind his desk, and
preparing for the rest of the orn.
xxXxXxx
“Hey Percy, you... uh... notice
anything strange about the twins recently?”
It was a quiet orn in the Science
Department. Tossing a wadded-paper ball back and forth in his servos,
Wheeljack leaned against a spare desk, watching the other autodog's
back struts as he worked. Dancing fingers finishing a repetition, the
border collie turned to face his companion for a moment. “Please be
elaborate, Wheeljack,” Perceptor replied, already turning away
again to a stack of datapads sitting to the left of his terminal.
“....Nevermind,” the engineer
vented, catching the paper ball and shooting for the nearest
trashcan. He missed, and before the scientist could shoot him a
blank, yet pointed look, Wheeljack moved to pick it up. “Anyways,
heard anything from Ratchet lately?,” he asked, throwing the paper
ball out properly. “I heard he was teaching the boys a CPR course
but that he's up and postponed their lessons since last week.”
Perceptor scrolled through his files
languidly. “That seems irregular,” he remarked. He didn't even
pause in his reports as he spoke. “I was unaware Ratchet was
providing such lectures to Jetstorm and Jetfire.”
“They asked for the classes from
Optimus. He didn't see a problem with them learning a handy safety
skill,” Wheeljack answered distractedly. “Right,” he added,
glancing at the clock, “I've got to go get something to eat for
lunch. Want anything while I'm out?”
“No, thank you,” Perceptor politely
declined. He'd already finished a quarter of the pile, as a thin
finger lifted, pointing across the room to his bag and coat. “Already
have prepared lunch for consumption. Shall break shortly.”
The bulldog nodded in acknowledgment,
fishing something out of his lab coat and setting it beside the
scientist. “I'll be back soon,” he said, bidding the smaller
autodog goodbye. “Good luck with your work Percy!”
The border collie looked up as the
other mech left, his optics landing on the small parcel Wheeljack had
left behind. It's white paper gleamed and the red ribbon bore a tag,
his name scrawled across it. That strange feeling wiggling beneath
his veil of indifference again, Perceptor paused in his work to reach
for the gift.
xxXxXxx
Flare-up's door swung open wildly,
almost smacking the glass walls, as the high-strung yorkie rushed
into the room. “Tracks is missing!,” Mirage yelled, coming to a
dangerous stop in front of the femme's desk.
Calmly, Flare-up continued to flip
through applicant files, barely glancing up. “Yes, Mirage,” she
said, “I am more than aware. I didn't realize you two were so
close.”
“Y-you need to call the police! The
hospital! The national guard!,” the mech demanded, totally ignorant
of the last comment, optics flared in a panic and servos flying
about. “H-he... he could be dead! Hurt! He could even be trapped in
a coke den!! He's sparked, he can't-”
“Calm down, Mister Mirage,”
Flare-up scowled, finally looking up.
Mirage would not be calmed though. “Why
aren't you searching for him!,” he shouted, smacking the desk with
both fists.
The femme glanced at the smudge his
fists had left behind, her frown deepening. “The reason I am not
'searching' for Mister Tracks,” she answered flatly, swallowing
back a sharp reprimand, “Is because I am well aware of his location
and his health. He is safe and well and tended by the hospital's
designated staff, so his whereabouts no longer concern me.”
“What does concern me,” the
jack russell continued, turning her optics up to the rigidly silent
yorkie, “Is how Tracks managed to slip by his posted guard the
other night.”
Mirage did not flinch or quake or give
any outward sign that the burning accusation in the femme's gaze
affected him, other than his own optics dimming. “....I have
nothing to apologize for,” he announced coolly, “Nor will I allow
you to shame me or slander me as a whore.”
Flare-up leaned back in her seat,
servos folded in her lap. “So I am to assume this is your
declaration of resignation? What a coincidence... One of my security
guards was talking about doing the same. Funnily enough, he was found
slacking off on his duties.”
Mirage's optics narrowed only half an
inch and the femme's lip components tightened in response. “You've
always been one of my favourites, Mirage, for you know the rules
explicitly and for you-”
“This has nothing to do with anyone
else or your company,” the yorkie interrupted, folding his servos
neatly before himself. “Now, I believe you mentioned my
resignation? Seeing as that is the case, I would like only to see the
paperwork. Please.”
Flare-up snorted, turning and taping
quickly at her computer. Not long after, the printer behind her began
spitting out paper. With not a word spoken between them, Mirage
filled out the necessary documents, and the femme collected them
after; signing them as well and stamping them with a seal of
approval. “It'll be sad to see you go,” the jack russell said.
“No it won't,” was the mech's cool
reply.
Flare-up smirked. “No, you're right.
But,” her tone dropped as she grew serious again, “If I find
Mister Hound has any other discrepancies against him, he will
be fired. Good day Mirage.... I hope this relationship lasts for
you.”
Quietly, the yorkie nodded, rising to
his pedes and exiting the office.
xxXxXxx
Lying to Perceptor was a queer thing.
Sure, in some ways, Wheeljack had always lied to the scientist, but
this time was different. This time it wasn't withholding the truth to
protect a beloved friend from further pain -this time, it had been a
lie made to purposefully keep the border collie in the dark, from the
harrowing discovery Wheeljack had made about the twins and Ratchet.
The engineer rationalized it of course, telling himself over and over
again that he couldn't share something with the other autodog without
knowing all the facts first, but they were all excuses.
Whether or not Ratchet was specifically
involved in the twins' heat cycle, the fact remained that Perceptor
was their creator -not Wheeljack- and he had every right to know what
had happened to his younglings and decide the course of action to be
taken from there. So why couldn't he just tell the border collie?!
The opportunities had been there the
last couple orns, yet each time the truth was on the tip of
Wheeljack's glossa.... a lie came out instead, making it increasingly
difficult to share with Perceptor what he'd found when washing the
twins' sheets. Jetstorm and Jetfire were a puzzle themselves though.
The bulldog had opted to paying them a lot more attention since, in
hopes that he could get more answers from them, but they acted as if
nothing had happened a few orns ago. Well.... almost....
There was something there, for sure
though, because the engineer noticed the two hybrids' weren't as
exuberant as they usually were. They seemed practiced in their
behaviour, withdrawn and secretive, and the last time they'd been
this “good”, they had chased down an absent sire in hopes of
fixing their carrier. Something was definitely up.... but what?
Wheeljack felt his hackles raise slightly as he strode quickly into
the hospital, torn between a deep-set confusion and a rapidly growing
rage. He just couldn't believe that Ratchet, a mech he trusted
explicitly for all these stellar cycles, could do... well, that, with
the twins! Interfacing them while in the midst of their heat cycle...
Didn't that constitute a breach in medical protocol; wouldn't the vet
have his medical license revoked in such a case? And what about
Jetstorm or Jetfire? Had they consented to the act? Could they even
have given proper consent, given the situation?
Wheeljack huffed angrily, punching the
elevator button, making a poor attempt to calm down as it descended
to his level. He may not have helped in creating them but the autodog
still cared and loved the twins as if they were his own sons; he'd
hurt anyone that would cause the hybrids' harm, long-time friend or
not.
There was a ding as one of the lifts
finally opened up -empty within too!- and that was nearly a blessing
in and of its self. With how quickly his feelings were spiraling out
of control, Wheeljack didn't want to accidentally take his anger out
on a poor, uninvolved 'bot. Getting inside, the engineer pressed the
number four and leaned back against the handrail; arms crossed over
his chestplates and trying to tuck more of his rage away. He almost
wanted to shout “Finally!” when the elevator doors opened again,
but refrained as he exited, heading straight past the nurses' station
and to Ratchet's office.
First Aid was just stepping out as he
drew closer, sweet face lighting up at the other autodog. “Oh,
hello Wheeljack! How are you?”
“Hi, er, and well...,” the bigger
mech mumbled, pausing, shaking off his haze. He pointed at the office
door like an idiot, still trying to disconnect from his earlier fury
in the face of someone so kind. “Um, First Aid, right? Uh, is
Ratchet in there?”
“Oh,” the australian shepherd
chirped, optics dimming sympathetically, “Sadly, no. It's his day
off, actually. Was there a problem?”
“Er, no,” Wheeljack quickly lied,
scowling to himself a little. Great.... Once again his hope for
answers ended only in failure. “Listen, um, do you know where he
might be? Like, is he home or, like, where does he live?”
First Aid chuckled, turning away for a
moment to lock the office door, answering, “Sorry, no, I don't
really have any idea how Ratchet prefers to spend his day off. But,
you can come visit him tomorrow if you'd like. He'll be in at nine
and gets off again around midnight. You want to talk about Perceptor,
right?”
“Yes. Wait, what?” The engineer
shuttered his optics in alarm, belatedly realizing what the smaller
mech had just said. Flushing in embarrassment, Wheeljack nodded,
allowing the australian shepherd's own statement be the excuse he
needed in this moment. “Uh, yeah.... So... I guess I'll go then.
Sorry to bother you.”
“It's no problem!,” First Aid
smiled, facing the bulldog again as the other mech started turning
away himself. “Everybody's been eager to speak to Ratchet lately,
but it seems they always just miss him. I know it's especially
disappointing for Jetstorm and Jetfire, being in love and all.”
“That's-” The words tumbled off of
Wheeljack's glossa silently as he came to an absolute stop, flared
optics looking down on the smaller autodog.
Glancing back up, First Aid blushed,
holding a servo up to his mouth. “O-oh no...,” the vet squeaked,
“Did I say something I shouldn't have? I'm sorry; please forget I
said anything! I-i have to go home. G-goodnight!”
Waving, the australian shepherd quickly
scurried off, disappearing into the nearest staircase, leaving a
dumbstruck bulldog behind.
xxXxXxx
Rubbing his temples weakly, Ultra
Magnus walked into City Hall, barely giving the security desk a
passable greeting before turning and heading down the left wing. His
helm was pounding with a vengeful processor-ache, the classic symptom
of a nasty hangover, and his frame was sore in places he wouldn't
think a night of drinking could cause. Just another reason that the
great dane should stay away from the toxic brew. Venting deeply, the
lawyer tried to resist massaging his temples again, his thoughts
returning once more to Rodimus.
That last confrontation had devoured
the rest of the mech's patience and with nothing or no one else to
turn to at such a strange moment in his life, Ultra Magnus had
purchased double the amount of his preferred liquor amount; quickly
downing the entire sum in a couple short cycles before he could
ponder the consequences of such a reckless decision. He'd been
flabbergasted, appalled even, at the viciousness his charge had
expelled while accusing him of crimes the great dane had no
recollection of committing. Even worse, the younger autodog had
announced his hatred of the mech who'd dutifully cared for him,
naming him an abuser and a tyrant, before running off.
Who, in all their sensibility, could
process such an incident without becoming enraged or rightfully hurt?
Processor ache spiking, the older mech
softly grunted, noting that he certainly had not been able to escape
the grief that followed. Nor the sudden and irrevocable call to his
night of careless drinking that had proceeded it.
But the night was over and it was a new
orn -still no Rodimus, still no closer to reconciliation.
“If only you were still with us,
Flashpoint,” Ultra Magnus mumbled tiredly to himself. “No doubt
your quick mind would know exactly how to resolve this dilemma....”
Rounding the bend to his office, the
great dane tried to shake off his lingering regret, knowing that his
processor ache would not be as easily removed. He wasn't surprised to
see Optimus at his desk, going through files as he catalogued the
data and taking phone calls. The younger mech was just in the middle
of a such a thing, before he spotted the lawyer; politely, he excused
himself to the caller and placed them on hold.
“Good afternoon, sir,” the
secretary smiled, rising to his pedes. He gathered a few folders
together, approaching the larger autodog as he drew closer. “I have
a number of files already prepared for you, sir, as well,” Optimus
added, pulling a manila envelope up off his desk and setting it atop
the pile, “Rodimus asked that I give this to you this morning. He
stated that it was urgent.”
“...Rodimus?,” Ultra Magnus vented,
optics flared slightly in surprise.
The german shepherd looked back at the
lawyer, his brow creased uncertainly and mild concern reflecting in
his optics. “...Yes,” he replied slowly, “Rodimus left this for
you, sir. I know you haven't been sharing the same office hours
lately, but I understand that you both have your own busy
schedules....”
“Y-yes,” the great dane was quick
to lie, clearing his vocalizer awkwardly. He reached for the pile
quickly, wiping his face clean of all emotion as he nodded to the
other autodog. “Thank you, Optimus. I shall leave you to your
duties; I believe you still have a caller on the line.”
“Oh,” Optimus gasped, remembering
suddenly, “Yes, thank you sir. I shall be in shortly with my
report.” Without another word, the secretary turned back to his
desk, picking the phone up and taking his waiting caller off hold.
Glad for his employee's distracted
state, Ultra Magnus hurried into the office, dumping the rest of the
folders on the desk as he ripped open the top of the manila envelope.
Inside was a single sheet of paper... Before he'd even pinched it
between his two fingers, the great dane could feel his fuel tanks
suddenly drop, a strange feeling knotting within their very depths,
sparking a flash of fear. Foolish, the autodog silently chastised
himself, withdrawing the sheet.
Scowling in typical fashion, Ultra
Magnus held the paper aloft, setting his optics on the first line of
the short paragraph.
It dropped from his suddenly lax grip,
the lawyer turning and rushing into the conjoined office, usually
occupied by his foster son. There was nothing special to be seen -a
desk, bookcase, computer terminal- before the great dane spun
one-eighty and ran from the office. Optimus jumped to his pedes as
the older autodog ran past, trying to keep pace with his superior.
“Ultra Magnus? Sir?! Ultra Magnus,
what's wrong?”
But the other mech did not -or could
not- hear the secretary, and Optimus stopped chasing as the great
dane hurried around the bend, racing for the entrance. Frightened and
confused, the german shepherd turned back to the office, heading
inside quickly. His only clue was the single piece of paper laying
face down on the floor, beside the torn remains of its manila
envelope. Without a word, Optimus scooped down to pick up the
document, smoothing it out as he turned its face toward him.
“Dear Ultra Magnus,” he began
softly, optics racing down the lines of typed words, “I am writing
this letter to inform you that, due to recent revelations and your
continued abuse, I have come to a necessary conclusion. I am not a
puppet; I have no strings for you to pull or any peg for you to hang
me from. I am a person, an individual; Primus forbid I have the
freedom to bear my own thoughts and feelings and actions. Yet, you
cannot disconnect from the poor, traumatized child you took in
half-sparkingly and realize what I have become.”
“I'm not sorry -I will never be sorry
I don't conform to your choking lies- I am only sorry that I thought
you could care for me as much as I did you. Well, I'm freeing you
from any further twisted obligation you may have. You live your life
as you see fit, and I will do the same with mine,” Optimus mumbled,
optics flared brightly as the paragraph wound down to its finish,
“....Goodbye....”
Beneath, it was signed 'Rodimus', but
the german shepherd barely registered that as the statement he had
just finished reading finally sunk in; a servo clapping over his
mouth in shock and horror. It wasn't just coincidence that Rodimus
had been acting strange that morning; he'd been caught collecting the
last of his things before he fled! Sinking into a nearby chair,
Optimus hung his helm as his fuel tanks roiled uneasily, weak from a
sudden wave of guilt.
xxXxXxx
There were some things a 'bot didn't
want to find out from a bystander's mouth. Working through the rest
of his shift in somewhat of a daze, Wheeljack almost didn't realize
that his wristwatch alarm had gone off, informing him that the orn
had finished and he was free to head home. Grabbing his coat and
keys, the bulldog left the Science Department and started the
well-worn trail to Perceptor's place -knowing that he wasn't expected
to come over this orn and that it was well into the evening at this
point.
But after what First Aid had said....
The engineer had to clear some matters
up and the only ones who could give him some sort of clarification
were the hybrids themselves. Knocking at the door, Wheeljack realized
that he didn't have a single good excuse ready, when Jetfire opened
the door within. “Um....uh... Hi,” the larger mech smiled
awkwardly. “You two are still up?”
“Yessis,” the orange youngling
smiled, stepping inside so the bulldog could enter. “Mommy
recharging is already. Cleaning dishes we be.”
“Ah.... good, good...,” Wheeljack
mumbled. He stood there, fidgeting in place uncertainly, as Jetfire
headed back into the kitchen; the sound of gently lapping water and
the clinking of dishes reaching the mech's ears.
“Is Uncle Wheeljack wanting tea?,”
came Jetfire's vocalizer.
“Oh? Uncle Wheeljack here? Some
goodies having, please! Freshly baked!,” piped up Jetstorm also.
“No, no it's okay,” the bulldog
called back, finally coming to a decision. He took off his coat,
draping it over the back of the couch momentarily, as he tidied up
the living room. “Hey, boys, would... would you mind coming here,
please? There was something I wanted to talk to you about.”
The sound of running water came and a
short klik after, both younglings were walking into the living room;
faces drawn in similar expressions of curiousity and perplexion.
“Yes, Uncle Wheeljack?,” they chimed together.
He couldn't help it- a smile came to
Wheeljack's face at the synchronized inquiry, before it fell
uneasily. A servo gestured loosely at the couch, while the autodog
gently rested on the edge of the coffee table. Only after Jetfire and
Jetstorm had taken their seats did the engineer clasp his servos
together in resolve. “Listen.... It's... It's come to my attention
that something....,” he started slowly, “Something happened a few
orns back.”
“....What is something?,” Jetstorm
asked, utterly confused. Jetfire was silent, but his optics were
bright as the cogs worked quickly behind them.
The bulldog vented, almost tempted to
laugh, though the situation was far from amusing. “I.... Your
sheets. I washed them the other orn. They were.... You were in heat.
You weren't sick that orn, you were in heat, and Ratchet came and....
And he interfaced with you, didn't he?”
Two frames stiffened at once, servos
curled into tight fists at their sides and in their laps; faces
twisted into dual expressions of guilt and despair. “W-we not-,”
Jetstorm croaked, vocalizer swelling with static.
“S-sorry!,” Jetfire hiccuped beside
his twin, orange optics drowning from his rising tears, “S-sorry
are, not did mean to-!”
“Boys, boys,” Wheeljack gasped,
yanking each of them forward, wrapping them tight in his arms. He
held them as they trembled hard, broken sobs muffled against his
collar struts, feeling his spark sink down into his fuel tanks.
“L-listen....,” the engineer mumbled, clearing his vocalizer, and
speaking clearer, “Listen, it's just a natural thing and being in
heat is nothing to be a-ashamed of... b-but... but if Ratchet hurt
you, i-if he forced himself o-on you e-even though you d-didn't-”
“N-no!,” came the sharp cry.
Struggling, both hybrids shoved away from the autodog, staring up at
him with alarmed faces.
“No, i-is... is like that not!,”
Jetfire hastened to add, shaking his helm so fast it was amazing he
didn't give himself whiplash.
“Y-yes...,” Jetstorm piped up,
wiping fingers under his visor quickly. “Is not... Ratchet not
rape. He nothing force. W-we.... We is....”
The younglings paused, bottom lip
components shivering as they glanced at one another, before coming to
a decision with sunken shoulders. “W-we... we w-wanting Ratchet to
'f-face us with,” they mumbled together in guilty admission, “A-and
not let g-give medicine to s-subdue cycle... B-but after...”
Jetstorm choked, as Jetfire continued,
“A-after... he go... and, and not able seeing him Ratchet since...”
“W-we's l-loving him o-only!,” the
blue twin sobbed, hunching over as his sparkache grew. “W-we
sharing him with, n-not think of us badly for that! N-not thinking
p-pleasure bots being w-we are! B-but he n-never see... P-please,
please saying hate us not is...”
Jetfire pulled his brother into his
arms as the other youngling began to wail in despair, silently crying
and shaking equally as hard. Stunned, Wheeljack sat there, unknowing
of what to do. He had not expected to hear that the jettwins had been
the ones to purposefully make Ratchet lose control nor had he
anticipated the tear-jerking response his prying would cause. Feeling
responsible, the bulldog let the hybrids cry out their sorrow for a
couple more kliks, before he gently eased them apart and sat between
them. Like when they were younger and needed consolidation that
Perceptor unfortunately could not give, Wheeljack tucked each
youngling into the crook of either arm; looping their legs over a
knee a piece, then gently hugging their torsos to his chest, rocking
and softly singing an old chanty.
Caught off-guard by the reaction,
Jetfire and Jetstorm could only shutter their optics and sway in time
with the bulldog's movements, sniffling every once in a little bit.
Once they had been lulled into a state of tranquility, Wheeljack
stopped the rocking, petting at their ears languidly instead as he
gently cleared his vocalizer once more.
“I.... I'm the one whose sorry,” he
said quietly. “I'm sorry that your sparks are hurting at a time
like this. I never knew you.... you had such strong feelings for
Ratchet, I... But I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, I mean, he's a
great 'bot once you get past the outer gruffness....”
The engineer couldn't see from his
angle, but two smiles bloomed; tiny and broken, but little specks of
humor at a true trait mentioned.
“And....,” Wheeljack continued,
venting deeply, “Primus... I shouldn't really expect
anything different. I mean, you've been kept isolated so long, and
you've both barely had a heat cycle and all.... Jeez, I'm rambling.
What I'm trying to say is, don't be sorry. Not to me, boys. You were
in love and in heat, and for all we know, your choices were the right
ones. I'm sorry that things have been... stressful... between you and
Ratchet since. I wish I had some answers to give you, slag,
I'd take even knowing what Ratchet's been up to these last few
orns.... But I can't. And that makes me extra sorry.”
Jetfire and Jetstorm sniffled, glancing
at each other, before they snuggled deeper into the bulldog's
embrace. “Is.... Is not fault,” they whispered. “Pl-please....
not taking blame, Uncle Wheeljack....”
“We loving you is.”
The autodog smiled sadly, hugging the
younglings tight for a moment. “I know, I know.... And I love you
boys as well. So, so much....” Glancing at the clock, Wheeljack
sighed, noting how late it was.
“Come,” he said, rising to his
pedes. He turned about, holding out a servo to each hybrid. “It's
late and... and though I know it hurts, you must both get some sleep.
Tomorrow is another long day and trust me when I say you don't want
to face it tired.”
The twins silently took Wheeljack's
servos, letting him pull them to their pedes as well; turning and
heading down the hall to get ready for recharge. Jetstorm paused at
the hall entrance, glancing back at the bulldog, playing with his
sweater's hood strings. “U-uncle Wheeljack....?,” he called out
hesitantly.
“Yes?,” the white mech asked,
looking up.
“I-is... is okay being you put to
sleep like before? When small really was?”
Wheeljack shuttered his optics in
surprise at the request, before his gaze brightened warmly, nodding.
“Yeah, no problem,” he answered. “Now go brush your denta and
put on your pjs. While you're at it, go get the book you and Jetfire
always loved to read. I'll read you a chapter once you're tucked in.”
Smiling eagerly, the blue hybrid turned
and raced down the hall, knocking into Jetfire who already occupied
the washroom. Wheeljack could hear them squabble -softly, so as not
to wake Perceptor- and felt glad for some normalcy. He doubted that
their aching sparks had been forgotten entirely, but some of the
younglings' fears had been appeased since the end of their
conversation. How horrible that must of been, the bulldog thought,
carrying such a humongous secret inside of them, convinced that what
had transpired was wrong and that Ratchet hated them.
Squeezing a fist, the engineer made a
silent resolution to himself. No later than tomorrow, he would find
Ratchet. He would find the vet and confront him on Jetfire and
Jetstorm, and for better or worse, Wheeljack would get his answers
from the older autodog.
The twins' sparks would not last much
longer without them.
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